CHRIS RICE COOPER is a newspaper writer, feature stories writer, poet, fiction writer, photographer, and painter. She maintains a blog at https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com. She has a Bachelor's in Criminal Justice and completed all of her poetry and fiction workshops required for her Master’s in Creative Writing with a focus on poetry. She, her husband Wayne, sons Nicholas and Caleb, cats Nation and Alaska reside in the St. Louis area.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright
privilege by: Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair
Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the
copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in
your search engine in order to pull up properly.Links are at the very end of this piece in
alphabetical order.

CRC Blog Analysis on

The Women
In The Castle

by Jessica Shattuck

“The Missing Pieces”

Jessica
Shattuck’s The Women In the Castle was published in hardcover on March 28,
2017 and in paperback on January 2, 2018 by William Morrow First Edition and
William Morrow Paperbacks.

The story begins in the castle called Burg Lingenfels in Bavaria, Germany on
November 9, 1938. Marianne von Lingenfels is in her husband’s great-aunt’s castle
preparing for a great party – a party she wished had been canceled due to the
rain – but her husband Albrecht
Lingenfels insists the party must go on. Above Left: Bavaria's most famous castle Neuschwanstein.

And the party does continue and the upper
crust of society show up, dance to the music of the day, enjoy the treasure
trove of food, drink the best liquor as they wait in line to shake the famous
Countess’s hand. Above Right: Vintage postcard of Bavaria in 1938.

Even among the festivities there is a
sense of apprehension – all have heard the news that 17-year-old Polish-German
Jew Herschel Feibel Grunszpan shot German Diplomat, Nazi member, and Hitler
supporter Ernest vom Rath two days before on November 7, 1938. Left: Grunszpan moments after his arrest on November 7, 1938

Even still Marianne pushes the bad
thoughts away for her to focus on the party only to realize that her husband Albrecht is nowhere to be seen.She immediately goes to the library where she
finds her husband in a special meeting with Martin Constantine Feidermann, and other important men; one of whom
she has never met before – Pietre
Grabarek, who raced from Munich to the castle to deliver two fold news: Ernst von Rath has died and Hitler is planning
a riot – what we now term the The Night
of Broken Glass. (Above Right: von Rath in 1934)

Marianne stands still, becoming a member
of the group of men, who now speak of the importance of assassinating Adolf
Hitler for the sake of all of Germany, but Albrecht is hesitant. (Above Left Synagogue destroyed in the Night of Broken Glass)

“I agree with the principle.”Albrecht spoke slowly into the swell of
support.“But active collusion against
our government- this government – is a dangerous thing. And we have wives and
families to consider.I’m not suggesting
we should not only that we think carefully –“

“Your wives and families will support
you,”Marianne interrupted, surprising
herself and the rest of the room.It came
out like a rebuke.Albrecht was always
so measured, slow, and thoughtful.A
plodding tortoise to Connie’s leaping stage.

“All of them",” von Strallen asked wryly.

“All of them,” Marianne repeated.von Strallen was a chauvinist.He told his silly wife, Missy, nothing and
took her nowhere.Poor Missy, treated
like a dumb fattened cow.

“And bear the risk?”Albrecht asked gently.

“And bear the risk” Marianne repeated.

“All right,” Connie said, turning his
intense gaze upon her.“Then you will
see to it that they are all right.You
are appointed the commander of wives and children.”

Marianne takes her role as commander of
the wives of children seriously – especially when the husbands are caught in a
failed assassination attempt on Adolf Hitler on July 20, 1944, and as a result,
the three men (Martin Constantine Fiedermann, Pietre Grabarek, Albrecht von
Lingenfels) were hanged.

After the war Marianne keeps her promise
of being the commander of the wives and their children.In June of 1945 she finds Martin Constantine
Fidermann’s wife Benita and their son Martin and brings them back to the castle
to reside with her and her three children Fritz, Katarina and Elizabeth.In August of 1945 Marianne finds Pietre Grabarek’s
wife Ania and their two sons Anselm and Wolfgang.

Together these three widows, of Nazi
resistors and their children maintain their own nucleus type of family in the
castle. The castle is much different in
1945 than it was in November of 1938.
Instead of fancy, expensive and tasty food there are only potatoes,
cabbage, mushrooms, boiled eggs for food; and no more
lavishly furnished rooms – the main room is the kitchen consisting of the big
oven that keeps them warm from the harsh winters.

These women and their children reside in
the castle revealing their own individual characters, so different from one
another. Through this revealing
deceptions are discovered, hopes of redemption are denied, true love is
shattered, and innocence is forever lost.
And yet each woman is an epitome of individuality, compassion and
redemption within herself.

The chapters take place in January of 1923; the
years 1934 and 1935; March of 1938; November of 1938; the year 1943; January of
1945; April to May of 1945; August of 1945; December of 1945; May to October of
1950; December of 1950; July of 1991; and October of 1991.

The book is entertaining and well written but
yet I was hoping for the castle Burg
Lingenfels to have a more active role as character in the story.Instead the three widows and their children only
live in Burg Lingenfels Castle for
six months from June of 1945 to December of 1945, which only covers the first
of four sections in The Women In the
Castle. The character Burg Lingenfels
Castle leaves the pages of the book after December of 1945 and does not
return until October of 1991.

There seems to be missing pieces in the
hardcover edition – specifically concerning Ania Grabarek, which fortunately
the author Jessica Shattuck recognizes and as a result has included the so
called missing chapter, which takes place on February 13, 1945 in the paperback
edition.

I also wanted to know more information
about an act of violence that Benita Feiderman, German prisoner of war Franz
Muller, and an unidentified Russian soldier are involved in.

Last but not least I wanted to know more
about the tortured soul of Franz Muller, the German Soldier/ Nazi who did work
at the castle. While at the castle he
was able to touch everyone’s lives (except perhaps that of Marianne) in a
positive way.

One of the most touching scenes from The
Women in the Castle is when Martin, the son of Benita, and Anselm and
Wolfgang, the sons of Ania, make a special trip to a POW camp where German
prisoners of war are imprisoned where Franz Muller is imprisoned. (Right: German POW camp guarded by the Americans)

“Here!”Martin was the first to speak.“We brought this for you.”With
frozen fingers he pushed his half candy bar and tin of cheese through the
fence.

“For me?”Herr Muller asked, studying their faces.

Martin nodded.

“Do your mothers know you came here?”

Martin shook his head.

“Ah.”Muller seemed to consider this.“It was kind of you.”

The boys stamped their feet against the
cold.

“Have you met anyone named Brandt?”Wolfgang asked, and his words were slightly
breathless as if he had pushed them out.

Muller frowned.“I don’t think so.From where?”

The Grabareks exchanged another
glance.“The Warthegau.”Anselm answered this time.

Muller shook his head.

“Your father?”Martin asked, unable to stop himself.

“No,” Wolfgang said his voice harsh.“Our father is dead.”

Who,
then?Martin wanted to ask, but
didn’t.

Muller regarded them in silence.“Well, thank you,” he said finally.“Take care of yourselves.And your mothers.And don’t come back here.”

The one term “the missing pieces” describes Women
In The Castle perfectly because, as Jessica Shattuck stated on her web
page video, (Right) the characters in this book do not live in black and white but in
the gray.She further describes these
characters as ordinary Germans – those who were aware of what was going on in Hitler’s
Nazi Germany and said nothing.All were
still ordinary Germans, ordinary human beings.Something humanity will always try to understand but that missing piece
of our understanding will never be clearly explained.

And it is these missing pieces that makes
us human and makes The Women in the Castle a book to savor and to treasure.

Saturday, February 24, 2018

*The
images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by: Public
Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United
States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder
which is identified beneath the individual photo.

**Some of
the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order
to pull up properly

***This is
the ninth in a never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where
the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how
the poet wrote that specific poem. All of the BACKSTORY OF
THE POEM series links are posted at the end of this piece.

Backstory of the
Poem

“The Gift of the
Year With Granny”

by Charles Clifford
Brooks III

What was your grandmother’s full
name? Her birthdate? And the day she died? Hazie Hestine Stager-Justice. She was the only daughter among five
brothers, born on February 2, 1925 and died on December 9, 2013. She was brought up tough, and as much as she
loved to give a hug, she could knock you out with a cast iron skillet for
taking the Lord’s name in vain. God
broke the mold after He blessed this earth with her feisty affection.

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem
from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form?This was a hard one.
Granny was one of those most close to me. A cheerleader and like her daughter, took no
shit off me. I wasn’t ready to tackle my
love of her in my first book, I got closer with my second, but I did publish a
piece of it, what I thought was complete through Hobo Camp Review. I knew then that I could be brave enough to
expand into the addiction she helped me hobble out of, the senior year of
college she nurtured me to graduation, and her chicken-and-dumplings were
insane.

The poem, like any life, grows. We remember more the longer we have to
reminisce. With time I took away my
foggy metaphors and mentor William Walsh (left) was the final kick in the pants to
tell the truth or throw the damned thing away.
The MFA program at Reinhardt University is unlike anything I’ve
seen. Both my Granny and paternal
grandfather, Big Dad, found their way out of me thus far in my two semesters
there.

You bleed from old scabs over those you want
to be most honest for, not about.

Where were you when you started to actually write the
poem? And please describe the place in great detail.It was at her funeral. I
carry Moleskines around like all poets.
There was and is so much love on mom’s side of the family, on both
sides, but momma’s folks are many, laugh, and hug, hug, hug. The funeral was held by a minister who knew
Granny well, made sure we didn’t cry too much, and told a joke at the end. It’s in the poem. Death is not a door slammed. Mortality does make us acutely aware of what
life we have left, those remaining around us, and doesn’t make us miss those
passed on any less. I took all of that
and jotted notes as my mom sat beside me in church.

Interesting side note that didn’t make it into
the poem: When I was a child (Left), my nanny
told me an old superstition that if you look between your legs while sitting at
a funeral, you could see the future. For
some reason that struck me while hearing about the life my Granny left us all
to love. I tried to look like I was
picking up a pencil “accidentally” dropped, but I am tall. I realized after three attempts at playing it
cool, to find the truth I would have to just dedicate myself and bend over to
peer into the Oracle’s eyes.

I didn’t see anything but feet and the back
wall of the church.

When I sat back up
my mom was looking at me with the expression, “What in God’s name was that
about?!” I whispered to her the
reasoning and she giggled at my childlike curiosity and random mindset to pull
up old wives tales at a funeral. Made
perfect sense to me, and that beautiful mix of faith, sweet recollections, and
poetic catharsis bled out over four or five years of edits, edits, and more
edits.

What month and year did you start writing this poem?How many drafts of this poem did you write
before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts
with pen markings on it?) December 2013. Countless.
I don’t have any handwritten notes or old photos of it to share, but you
can go to the Hobo Camp Review and see the earliest version I thought worthy of
note. Check out the Hobo Camp Review
link at: http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/2016/04/clifford-brooks.html

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem?Family is not about blood.
Relation is happen-stance. Love is
the loyalty that brings folks together, and my Granny was the love that held me
together when life fell apart on me. I
want people to see the wild-haired Hazie without fake appeal or melodrama. She was a fighter. She wore pretty dresses to church every
Sunday. She worried about me and some
“good woman” being there to be sure I ate.
I want people to remember my Granny was here, lived, made a difference,
and was surrounded by happiness in life as in death.

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write
and why? Any mention of my alcoholism, thoughts of
suicide, and her deep concern for me being left alone bring tears – even
now. It’s just personal stuff. Not regretful sorts of wailing, but more the
days that went by after I moved from her home, on with life, and the time I
couldn’t watch Wheel of Fortune with her every evening. I remember how my mom brought me in at the
end when she remembered few, saw Granny smile real big, and say, “That’s my
Cliff.”

Anything you would like to add?Please
Support my book and the press gracious enough to print “Athena Departs: Gospel
of a Man Apart”. You catch glimpses of
my Granny in my memories. “Athena
Departs” builds up to her story I keep safe to save my sanity: https://www.kudzuleafpress.com/shop/4cbhr4ihrfankaxxujmf4j7x8ak0cs (Click on link for Athena Departs)

The Gift of a Year with Granny

I am less myself without her.

We shared a small house safe

from the insanity I couldn’t shake without
suicide.

She spent twelve months casting

out my father’s curse.

Still, Granny never neglected to kiss me

before I left for class.

Once I decided to ditch class,

and the old broad elbowed me

in the chest.

The only sister in a house full of brothers,

she grew into a grandmother

undefeated by the Great Depression,

welcomed her warrior home from World War II,

and never blinked at the legion of demons in
me.

Obsessed, she hacked off the heads.

of every serpent she saw

swearing it was a copperhead.

Granny said she loved to live alone

with her memories.Not today,

kids off to their own lives

and fields neglected.Back then

I was ushered in as her invalid.

We shared over two hundred sunsets,

and never saw a bad night.

No black dogs hounded me.

She could see that, but struggled.

My tiny titan stood over me during nights

my sleep was more terror than a span of quiet
hours.

That woman wrote my name in all my underwear,

and said that money is fleeting when love

is better spent than saved.

I turned my attention to Shorter University

and set my sight on a diploma.

Doing the hard, last year,

I swore Satan was in the house’s

lack of air conditioning.

Instead of complaining,

I started smoking pot and forgot

why I loved whiskey.

Ten years later,

she tried to tell my momma

in the hospital that a kitchen knife

could cut dementia

away from her dignity. It didn’t,

and six days later Granny

only remembered me.

The reverend who led her funeral

was kind.

Without a word concerning the end times,

my unmoving matriarch began

to push up peaceful daisies.

The holy man that let us out in laughter

said, “The coffin only holds her shell,

because the nut has gone home.”

Still laughing the mourners got going.

I sat on grandfather’s headstone while a
backhoe

filled in the six feet left

between me and Granny.

To stall the ache that agony spills

in the place of the peace I found in Lindale,

I retreat back to relive all evenings we
shared.

My senior year at Shorter University

was shaped by her chicken and dumplings,

Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy,

and Unsolved Mysteries.

Clifford Brooks was born in Athens, Georgia. His first poetry collection, The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics, nominated for the 2013 Georgia Author of the Year Award in Poetry, will be re-issuecd by Kudzu Leaf Press in 2018. His full-length collection Athena Departs: Gospel of a Man Apart as well as his limited-edition poetry chapbook Exiles of Eden were published in 2017,

also by Kudzu Leaf Press. Clifford is the founder of The Southern Collective Experience, a cooperative of writers, musicians and visual artists, which publishes the journal The Blue Mountain Review and hosts the radio show Dante's Old South. He currently lives in northwest Georgia and is pursing an MFA in Creative Writing at Reinhardt University.